bookend blog

it's been a short long year, i remember january and its chill, november and its angst, but not june or its weather. this unrealness of memory is fuelled by the strange seasons. torpid then copious rains, a fierce summer that lingered under the skin for much longer, and a winter that just won't settle. like a finicky hostess with a tablecloth, stretching, smoothing, a tug here, some slack there, but it will still worry her all evening. that lopsided uneven length of cloth represents everything that's wrong with the party. if she could just fix that, all else would click back into place.